Biography of Paul Day
Hello! I'm a teenager and I've written my entire life. Most of the time, I work on short stories or novels and only recently started checking out poetry. This means that my poems may be about all sorts of different topics.
I love to talk and I will gladly comment or read your poems. Just get in touch!
**Paul Day is a pen name.
Paul Day Poems
Work That Needs Doing… Later.
Work. There is always work to be done. Real work, busy work, work I make for myself. But it doesn’t need doing right away.
Caught In The Web Of A Beautiful Spider
Like a fly I flew into the trap, Though I swore I never would. Like a fly I took a path,
Safe At Home
Mud caked a little boy’s bruised skin And filth dripped off of him. His mother sighed and shook her head When he first appeared in her sight.
Don'T Worry, Bare Tree
Right now, the wind blows through your branches And you moan. Your branches are bare and have lost color For another winter.
I Fear Our Future
I like you very much. But each day I tell you I love you, And it’s a lie. There is only one I truly love,
I took a motorboat across a lake, And got from end to end real fast. The wind whipped across my face. I occasionally got splashed.
Why Does That Have To Be Our Nature?
Why don’t we all get along? It’s not a whine Or a complaint. It’s a valid question.
Hardly Known And Quickly Forgotten
I came across a tree in the wood the other day. It was old and had long since rotted away. The trees around it were thriving, And this one lacked any magnificence.
You put yourself in the center of it all. You believe everyone’s either out to hurt or help you. It’s going to be your inevitable downfall. You’re shut down to any other point of view.
Butterfly, you graced my eyes for just a short while. Yet you remain so vividly and beautifully implanted. And upon your memory I smile. You’ve left an impression that will remain so sacred.
He Built A Bridge
A young boy sprinted among the trees Until he came to a wide river bank. His reflection glistened back at him. He splashed and the water sparkled.
Oh river, Where do you flow to? Oh river,
Look Through My Eyes
Dear Pessimist, You hate this life. You hate this world. You hate these people.
Picture this: Writhing. Head, arms, legs flailing frantically beyond control.
Safe At Home
Mud caked a little boy’s bruised skin
And filth dripped off of him.
His mother sighed and shook her head
When he first appeared in her sight.
She hurried to fetch him a new pair of clothes
Knowing it was just another day in the wild.
She helped him change and looked him over
While he talked about his plans for tomorrow.
But when he started to cry,